To all the faces I brace,
Against…smile an armour,
I use…like a talisman.
It is easier to speak of the height of the sun,
Than delve into the tin to find soft tissue.
It is lighter to talk of the dust that impersonates sand,
Than acknowledge that it is within and its purpose serves.
Watching the two, mesmerized by the three,
How to not wish it was my hand not free.
Chasing; cents and pennies,
Thinking they could replace cells and arteries.
They could stand for veins and roses.
They could smile as one who feels l’amour.
The tin woman has a heart,
She is perceived not to hurt,
She waits in longing for one that will look within the rust and take her apart.
Melt her, speak with words that can’t,
In the space of a second become the dust that impersonates the sand.
The whistle that is like a mirage.